


Three Little Words

by wanderingoverthewords



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bodily Harm, M/M, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 11:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords
Summary: Jonathan gets a visitor in Arkham Asylum, and is almost tempted to remain in his cell. But, he figures, he could at least say hello to his lover.





	Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow, Edward Nygma, Arkham guards, Oswald Cobblepot; mentioned Query, Echo, Polar (OC), Bernie, Martin.
> 
> Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma.
> 
> Warnings: threats of murder; mentions of bodily harm, human experimentation, sexual scenarios, suicide.
> 
> Notes: Wrote this last year, but it was posted only to my Scarecrow RP blog. This fic doesn’t take place in my usual ‘verse, but rather a ‘verse my partner and I created together, which is essentially a fusion of my universe and the Gotham universe (my partner RPs Gotham’s Penguin; this ‘verse was made for the sake of interaction between our blogs, and due to the fun we had realising my Jonathan would despise that Penguin). 
> 
> Rest assured, these versions of Jonathan Crane and Edward Nygma remain mine and the Gotham references are at a bare minimum (spoiler alert: Oswald himself appears for a literal second. Besides that, I don’t watch nor like the show, so I wouldn’t be able to reference it even if I wanted to), so readers who have read my work before won’t be confused by any changes. The plot of the RP between my partner and myself is briefly mentioned, but it’s nothing y’all can’t figure out for yourselves. This was mainly written just as an excuse to write some Scriddler.
> 
> Fic has been edited lightly compared to the version posted on Tumblr because there were some things I didn’t like, in hindsight, and some mistakes I’ve caught now. 
> 
> The OC mentioned in this fic belongs to my partner; Polar is Oswald’s right-hand man and bouncer/bartender at the Iceberg Lounge. He has also interacted with my Jonathan; things didn’t end well because Scarecrow’s a dick.
> 
> All material belongs to DC Comics (although my interpretations of the characters are used).

“Crane,” barked a voice as his cell’s door was opened and light flooded the room, “you got a visitor.”

The noise had made Jonathan raise his head slightly to look at the silhouette of the guard in his doorway, one hand supporting his head as he laid upon his cot, his left hand carefully rested above him to avoid disturbing the cast on his middle finger.

He stared at the man for a moment, considering whether or not he wanted to go, before he sat up. He stretched his arms above his head until his joints popped and his spine cracked, then he stood up and walked over to the guard to have his handcuffs put on, as were the rules when being led to the visiting station.

(The guard had to settle for handcuffing Jonathan’s right wrist to his left forearm, since the cast covered Jonathan’s hand and wrist. Luckily for him, the chain for the handcuffs was long and Jonathan Crane had sticks for limbs, so the change in positioning was only a short struggle.)

Jonathan frowned as he was taken by the shoulder and led down the corridor, hearing other inmates calling and screaming within their own cells. His frown deepened as he passed Oswald Cobblepot’s - he could _feel_ his smug smile from here.

They both knew who had come to visit Jonathan; no one else would.

Jonathan was led through a series of corridors and down several flights of stairs before they hit the ground floor of the asylum.

The guard leading him slid a key card into a slot on the wall and the door to the inmate’s side of the station was unlocked, and Jonathan was led through. Nobody else had any visitors; the place was empty.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” came a voice from straight ahead. It was slightly muffled, due to being on the other side of the glass, but the words could be made out; Arkham’s equipment really did suck at every job it took on, not to mention the good acoustics of the room. “I’m here today as an innocent civilian, visiting a loved one in a mental asylum. You can stop giving me the dirty looks.”

There was a noise that sounded like a grunt; that was a little too muffled.

“Won’t be long ‘til you’re back in here, Riddler. Crazy bastard that you are.”

_“I_ am not _crazy.”_

“Whatever. Crane’s in here, so you’ll be shortly behind, no doubt about it.”

“Who do you think I’m here to visit, you cretin? If you’re not going to say anything useful, you can leave. I need to speak with Jon and I’d prefer if we didn’t have your useless chatter in the background.”

Jonathan snorted.

Classic Edward.

He saw Edward’s head turn as he was led into the room.

The Riddler was standing by the chair he would soon be sat in, one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other clutching his green and black question mark cane by its curve.

He wanted people to think he’d brought it along for no reason other than aesthetic, but Jonathan knew him better than that; he’d brought it to fidget with, since Jonathan was aware he experienced more anxiety sitting on that side of the glass than on Jonathan’s.

Nobody liked visiting a jailed loved one, and Edward had no idea what had become of Jonathan while he was in here.

Edward was dressed in his casual wear for the trip, understandable given what role he played here: his usual combination of brown trousers, white shirt and a purple sweater vest decorated with green and purple diamonds. Jonathan couldn’t see lower than Edward’s knees, but he would’ve wagered he was also wearing his dark grey loafers and green socks with purple question marks. The only piece of his Riddler costume on his person, besides the cane, were the leather gloves: purple with green question marks on the palms, one inverted and one drawn correctly, so they would join when Edward clapped.

Thanks to Gotham’s cold weather, he wore his black pea coat as well, the collar up.

He had such a pretentious way of standing, but Jonathan had come to find this charming.

Edward slipped into his chair as Jonathan was escorted to his, pushed into it by the hand on his shoulder.

The inmate obediently lifted his hands so the guard could unlock and remove his handcuffs, huffing at Crane as he did so.

“No funny business, you two. I know what yer like,” the guard said.

Edward regarded him with a smile while Jonathan scoffed and replied, “That ain’t us. I’m the scary one, he’s the irritatin’ one. Learn yer Rogues, son.”

The guard answered him with a grunt and left them to it, taking his place by the door should Crane attempt to run for it.

Jonathan turned his attention to Edward, who was still smiling brightly, even after having been called irritating.

As Jonathan reached for the phone on his side, Edward set his cane by his leg and flexed his gloved fingers before grabbing for his own phone, making a show of pressing it to his ear as he dropped his chin into one hand and widened his smile at Jonathan, beginning to show teeth.

_“Don’t,”_ Jonathan warned, glaring at him from under the rust-coloured hair that had flopped over his eyes.

Edward’s lips began to separate, the grin beginning to break out as he started to chuckle.

“Edward.”

He couldn’t hold it; Edward broke into laughter. Hearty, smug laughter. Laughter so fierce, he leaned back in his chair and projected it to the ceiling.

Little bastard; Jonathan knew he should’ve told him to fuck off.

He went to put the phone back when Edward’s laughter died down and he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; one of these days, Jonathan would learn better, but love made a man foolish.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Edward chided, wagging one finger at him, “you can’t get mad at _me,_ dear.”

“Can’t I?” Jonathan asked sarcastically, continuing to direct a glare his way.

“You can’t. What did I say before you went out on your little solo heist? I said, ‘Dear, if you go to Ace Chemicals without first researching their new security system, you’re going to get caught. They’ve learned from your old tricks and they’ll be ready for you.’. That’s what I said. And what did you say?”

Jonathan didn’t bother trying to answer; Edward was already going on.

“You said, ‘Ain’t nuthin’ they c’n throw at meh that I won’t be ready fer. If anythang, I’ve learnt from their ol’ triicks.’. That’s what you said.”

There was a pause - unbelievably, for a conversation featuring Edward Nygma - then Jonathan said, “…Yer Southern accent is fuckin’ atrocious.”

Edward’s smile faltered briefly, then he cleared his throat, ignored the criticism and moved on.

“And then I said, ‘Well, dear, when you inevitably get caught, I get to say I told you so.’. And what was your response? A grunt, which _I_ usually take as ‘Why, Edward, you’re _absolutely_ right!’ and, for this situation, I’ve taken the liberty to add, ‘You can most _certainly_ tell me I told you so when you’re visiting me in Arkham!’.” Edward sat back and gestured around them with one hand. “And look where we are, Jon: _Arkham,_ on _opposite_ sides of the glass. So, if you’ll give me this moment of prideful satisfaction…”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as Edward straightened up, making a show of clearing his throat in preparation, then he was leaning forward on his elbow and saying smugly, “I told you so. I told you so, I told you so, I _told you so.”_

Jonathan gritted his teeth, resisting a nasty comment. “…We agreed on _one_ ‘I told you so’. Those other three are comin’ outta yer pocket.”

Edward chuckled, then shook his head. “Oh, _Jon._ When are you going to learn that Edward Nygma is never wrong?”

“Maybe when Edward Nygma is actually correct one-hundred percent o’ the time.” Jonathan sniffed. “I’m fine, by the way, thanks fer askin’.”

Edward’s smile finally fell as he rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. As if you’re here for sentimentalities.”

“I’m here cause I’m fully aware that if I had refused ta come along, you woulda found a way ta bust into my cell ta talk to me anyway.”

“That I would. You can’t escape my ‘I told you so’, Jon, no matter how hard you try. We live together; you would’ve heard it eventually.”

“I’m movin’ out.”

_“Ha!_ And go _where?_ Back to your _flea-ridden_ shack? Absolutely _not._ No partner of _mine_ is living like _that_ and can still expect to invite himself into my bed.” Edward turned his nose up at him. “Sacrifices are to be made, Jon: it’s the shack or me.”

“I’ll take the shack,” Jonathan said immediately.

Edward’s expression dipped into his default for when he was displeased: pursed lips, half-lidded eyes, raised eyebrows.

He stared at Jonathan for a moment, then said, “Watch it. One more crack like that and you may find the shack will be all you have.”

Jonathan grunted, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension in them.

Edward cleared his throat, moving them along from that topic, and rested his chin in his hand once more as he casually asked, “So. Who else is in? Anyone I know?”

Jonathan frowned.

As if Edward wasn’t aware of who had been speaking to Jonathan lately, though he supposed he could appreciate the general interest in whether or not Jonathan had anybody to talk to while incarcerated.

“Yeah, actually.”

“Oh?”

“A scrawny li’l bastard who looks like he popped a finger in a socket an’ only bothered ta fix half the damage, whose been a real _pain_ in my ass recently.”

Edward looked passive. “Don’t know anyone like that.”

“Like hell ya don’t.” Jonathan huffed. “Cobblepot.”

Edward’s face lit up; Jonathan would never understand why he liked Oswald so much, but he supposed it was a good thing Edward had close friends beyond Query and Echo, if only because of the connections they brought him.

“Oh, yes! Oswald! I heard he was in, yes.”

“You’ve heard _from him,_ as well. He told me ‘bout how he was contactin’ you about takin’ care of the Iceberg Lounge while he was gone.”

“He might’ve called me up,” Edward joked, then waved a hand and went on. “But, yes, I’ll be watching his club for him until he returns. Between you and me, I was thinking of redecorating.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Redecoratin’?”

“Yup. It’ll be the Riddler’s Club until Oswald gets back. I’m making the most of my newfound management position.”

Jonathan snorted, finally amused for the first time since they had both sat down. “’Riddler’s Club’?”

“I’ll think of a catchy name _later,_ Jon.” Edward rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. “I’m still designing.”

“Cobblepot’s gonna be pissed if ya fuck with his lounge.”

“Psh.” Edward waved a hand again. “Details. It’s a bridge I’ll cross when I get to it.”

Jonathan chuckled, genuinely humoured.

There was no stopping Edward when he set his sights on a project; the Iceberg Lounge would be transformed within a day, and anybody who had a problem with that - Oswald included - would have to deal with the Riddler.

Edward tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear and went reaching for his inner coat pocket.

“Here, let me show you,” he said as he brought out a folded piece of paper between his first two fingers.

He placed it upon the desk before him before unfolding it and smoothing out the creases, then he went to hold it up to the glass to show Jonathan.

“Hey, hey, hey,” interrupted the guard that had spoken to Edward before.

Edward and Jonathan looked over as the guard took a brisk walk over to Edward, shaking his head and waving a hand in disapproval. Once he stopped at Edward’s side, he motioned with one finger for Edward to give the paper to him.

“None of that, now. Hand it over.”

Edward frowned and turned in his chair, holding the paper up by two corners to show the guard as he replied, “It’s not an escape plan, you idiot. Just plans for my new -”

“Don’t care, Nygma. You an’ Crane can’t be trusted. Now, hand it over.”

Edward’s frown deepened at being interrupted, but he still tried again.

“It’s not an escape plan. This location - technically - doesn’t _exist_ yet. It’s just a plan for my club, that’s all. _Terrifying,_ right?” Edward scoffed and rolled his eyes, then turned his nose up at the guard, shutting his eyes as he added haughtily, “I’m completely willing to allow Jonathan to remain in Arkham until he’s dubbed sane, I just wanted to show him -”

“I don’t _care, Nygma,”_ the guard snapped. He stepped closer and reached for the paper in Edward’s hands. “Give me the damn thing.”

Edward twisted in his chair, using his shoulder to shield himself and the plan as he scowled at the guard. _“Don’t touch tha -”_

He was interrupted for a third time; not by the guard, but by the loud _bang_ that silenced both men.

They both turned to look at Jonathan; he had slammed his injured hand to the glass on his side, directing a killer scowl at the guard. The movement made the staff member on his side flinch and move to walk over, but Jonathan made no further movement of any kind, so he let it slide.

Edward seemed to finally notice the cast on Jonathan’s finger, now that it was pressed to the glass before him, and he frowned in indignation at it, eyes flicking their gaze to Jonathan to ask him silent questions about it.

Jonathan ignored them. For a moment, his expression briefly twisted in pain, then he nodded to the guard.

Edward understood immediately; the phone was retrieved from its place on his shoulder and offered to the man at his right.

“I believe Jon would like to speak to you.”

The guard faltered, hesitated, then took the phone and pressed it to his ear.

Before he could speak, Jonathan’s voice came through as a hiss, delivered through clenched teeth.

“Listen ta me an’ listen ta me well, boy. I ain’t in the mood fer any shit you people are gonna pull, so I warn you ta pay attention while you can. You lay a finger on him, boy, an’ I will visit you in yer own home, pry open that pitiful excuse of a brain you got and discover every little thing that keeps you awake at night. I will compile them, form them, then force them before your eyes so every waking moment - for the rest of your life - will be filled with _fear._ You will lie awake at night, trembling and cold with sweat, wishin’ fer yer mommy ta come and protect you, but you will find no solace. No escape. The fear will follow you, everywhere you go. It’ll be under yer skin, in yer blood, roaming around like an insect in yer brain, behind yer eyes. You will never have a coherent thought, you will never again wonder what you should have fer dinner, what you’ll watch on TV, if you should take the wife out fer date night or the kids to that movie they wanted ta see because all yer mind will know is _fear._ And you will know that this could have all been avoided if you’d just _left the Riddler alone.”_

He waited for a reaction; he got one in the form of a thick swallow and a tiny nod.

“Now, you have a chance to stop that fate from happenin’. Give the phone back ta Edward an’ _piss off.”_

The guard cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed at being spoken down to by an inmate, but nodded all the same. He was much more tight-lipped now.

Edward had been smiling at Jonathan throughout the entire exchange.

Jonathan was usually much subtler in his protectiveness toward a chosen few people - Edward included - due to never wanting to be perceived as a caring type, but he didn’t have a choice here. It was in front of Edward or it was nothing.

Edward didn’t even look up as he held out a hand and the phone was returned to him.

Before the guard could return to his post, however, Edward cleared his throat, which made him turn back.

The Riddler set his paper down on the desk in order to transfer the phone to his left hand, then motioned with his right index finger for him to come closer.

Once the guard had leaned down to him, Edward said smugly, “FYI, that’s what happens when you threaten a Rogue’s lover right in front of them. Be sure not to do it again, ‘kay?”

He patted the guard’s cheek twice.

The guard said nothing in return, just hurried back to his post.

With him gone, Edward turned back to Jonathan, smiling all the same - that was, until his gaze landed back on Jonathan’s injured hand, which he had now dropped to the desk. It was easy to miss things when you weren’t looking for them; Jonathan’s middle finger was wrapped up, forcibly straightened compared to the rest of his twig-like appendages.

They should’ve wrapped up his index finger as well, Edward noted, to avoid having the other fingers manipulate the middle one into moving. Jonathan’s left hand had to be downright useless right now; it was a good thing he was ambidextrous.

Edward frowned tightly at it, apparently forgetting what had led to him discovering it in the first place, then asked slowly, “…What happened to your hand?”

“Don’t matter none.” Jonathan nodded to the paper. “Show me yer plans.”

Edward hesitated, frowning, but nevertheless picked up the paper from where he’d dropped it to the desk. He transferred the phone to his shoulder, straightened out the page again, then used both hands to press it to the glass.

Jonathan leaned forward to get a better look.

A diagram of what was currently called the Iceberg Lounge had been drawn upon the paper, the exterior of the building visible on only a fraction of it before it gave way to an x-ray of the club, where all umbrella or Penguin imagery had been replaced with question marks and Riddler aesthetic: the walls were littered with question marks and the odd riddle or two; any blue, white or black had been replaced with green and purple, with a bit of gold here and there. Several items of furniture had been replaced, notes made beside each piece with the replacement’s designer, all fitting to Edward’s expensive tastes.

The outside of the building hadn’t changed much, beyond some green banners, the sign change (a note was made next to it featuring ‘The Riddler’s Club?’ - Jonathan had a hard time figuring out if the question mark was to show Edward’s indecisiveness over the name or if it was _part_ of the name) and the giant, green, neon R that Edward was planning to have fitted on top of the roof.

There were even notes on how Edward was going to make Oswald’s office his own; Jonathan had obviously been thought of amidst this designing, as there were some items in the new office - such as the couch and the choice of snacks that would be on the coffee table - that featured either ‘Jonathan will like this’ or ‘for Jon’.

All in all, a very detailed plan.

Jonathan found himself grinning at it, but not for the plan itself, no.

For the very idea that Oswald would go _apeshit_ when he discovered what Edward had done - and that would only be when he was approaching the club itself. No one could miss that giant R, after all, and Jonathan certainly wasn’t telling him about it at lunch.

“Oh, _Edward,”_ Jonathan drawled, practically cooing, “I _love it.”_

“I knew you would,” Edward replied, grinning now as he took the paper away from the glass to appreciate it himself.

He apparently hadn’t caught onto the exact reason Jonathan loved it so much; he was so far shoved up his own arse, he assumed it was praise.

“I was thinking as well, on a way of dealing with anyone who gets too rowdy. You know.” He mimed chugging a bottle of beer, then returned the phone to his hand as he waved the other. “We’ll ask them a riddle and - if they can’t even give a _good_ guess as to what the answer is - then they’ll be assumed too intoxicated and will be politely asked to leave. Or they’ll be assumed stupid, but that’s a given in this city. Either way, I don’t want them in my club.”

_“Perfect,”_ Jonathan practically purred, playing along.

The praise was getting Edward excited and - dare he say - flustered. Whether or not Jonathan was intentionally playing into one of his kinks was up in the air (if he was, it would be a welcomed surprise, since he was usually such a prude). Either way, Edward was getting…tingly.

He wiggled in his seat, smiling like a child on Christmas, and replied, “It will be. And it’ll all be mine, if even temporarily.”

“Will I get a discount on drinks?”

“Dear, _everything_ will be on the house for you. You’ll practically own the place alongside me.”

Jonathan’s grin widened. “Even _more_ perfect.”

Edward grinned back, still wiggling, then he muttered, “I’m going to have _fun_ bossing Polar around.”

Jonathan barked out a laugh. “Edward, leave the poor man alone…! He ain’t done nothin’ ta you.”

“No. But it’ll still be fun. I might have to change his name, though - _‘Polar’_ doesn’t quite fit in a club owned by the _Riddler.”_ He waved a hand. “If he doesn’t like it, he can get out. The Riddler only hires the best of work staff.”

Jonathan chuckled.

He could only imagine poor Polar’s reaction to everything; no doubt he would be sworn to secrecy, lest Oswald find out before he was to return. Edward was going to stretch this out for as long as possible.

Straightening up, Edward appeared less pleased as he said, “But, back to other matters,” he gestured to Jonathan’s injured hand with a look, “what happened to your hand?”

Jonathan sighed, but nonetheless held it up to allow Edward a better look, his expression deadpanned as he explained, “Broken finger. One o’ my old test subjects is in here. He remembered me.”

Edward kept his gaze locked upon the cast, but something shifted in his expression that showed Jonathan the anger that had blossomed at the mere sight of the injury; the explanation only made it worse.

Edward rolled a shoulder, a natural twitch in response to holding himself back. “…Do I need to get involved?”

Jonathan barked out a laugh, making Edward take his gaze from Jonathan’s cast.

The older male cocked his head. “Spare me the sentimental approach, Ed. I don’t need no bodyguard. Not like Cobblepot does.”

Edward glanced at his cast again, which Jonathan had now set back onto the desk, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair before nodding slowly. “Yes. He told me about that. You laughed in his face.”

Jonathan snorted. “If he’s gonna go ‘round tellin’ people he’s the ‘King of Gotham’, he deserves ta have people laugh in his face. Thinkin’ he can convince me by throwin’ around fake titles.”

_“Really?_ ‘Master of Fear’?”

Jonathan frowned. “I said _fake_ titles.”

“Indeed.” Edward cleared his throat. “Be kinder to him, Jon. He’s had a rough time recently and isn’t quite as used to Arkham Asylum as we are. He’ll need somebody to show him the ropes and - since _I’m_ unavailable - it’ll have to be _you._ Besides, he’s a good friend of mine and you’re my boyfriend; I’d _like_ for the two of you to get along, perhaps even learn to like each other.”

Jonathan grunted and didn’t reply beyond that. Certainly didn’t bother to mention how hypocritical it was for Edward to request he be kinder to Oswald; the Riddler was planning on taking over the Penguin’s prized establishment, he could hardly talk about being kind to him. All Jonathan had done was sass him and laugh at him; Edward was coming for much worse.

(He couldn’t mention it, really, not when he was being a hypocrite himself, regarding Edward’s protectiveness; he wasn’t quite up for discussing his own standards.)

To stop himself from also mentioning that there would never be a time where he would _like_ Oswald Cobblepot, Jonathan changed the subject: “Ya better have been takin’ care of Bernie while I’ve been gone.”

Edward pursed his lips.

Of course, he knew the mouse would be mentioned eventually; she was Jonathan’s pride and joy, the first thing in the world that had gained his love and protection (not counting Scarecrow or his fear toxin, but one shouldn’t count symptoms of mental illnesses nor inanimate objects, especially drugs, in this type of thing) and Edward would have made a very big mistake if he’d left Bernie to her own devices during Jonathan’s absence.

Jonathan wasn’t above nor beneath harming anyone who mistreated her. She had once accidentally gotten poisoned with fear toxin due to Edward knocking over a canister of the stuff in Jonathan’s study; Jonathan had responded by throwing a TV remote at Edward’s head (he’d missed) and warning him that if she died, Edward could expect to have his throat slit and his body hung on the wall.

Luckily, Bernie had made a full recovery, but Jonathan still hadn’t spoken to Edward for two days afterwards.

“Of course,” Edward replied. “She’s barely left my sight, don’t worry. I’ve fed her, filled her water bottle, played with her some -”

“Didn’t pick ‘er up, did you?” Jonathan said warningly.

Nobody was allowed to pick Bernie up but him; she disliked strangers.

Edward huffed at being interrupted, rolled his eyes, but replied anyway, “Only to move her to her smaller cage, so I could bring her out of the basement. I’m not spending all my time down there. It’s stuffy. Don’t look at me like that, she had her revenge: she bit me.”

“Good girl.”

Edward frowned sharply. _“Anyway,_ I also cleaned her cage - as _painful_ as _that_ was. It, ah, it really does…smell, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, horribly so,” Jonathan replied happily.

“I wore my face mask.”

“Of course you did.”

Edward cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. “I think she misses you, though. Ignored me a few times, as if to tell me I’m not the _correct_ man who’s supposed to feed her and play with her.”

Jonathan sighed glumly through his nose.

He missed Bernie too; it was hard not to miss a constant in his life, and Bernie had been with him for longer than his relationship with Edward. He’d pet her while thinking, allow her to roam on his belly when he laid on the sofa, and treated her to peanuts when she successfully annoyed Edward by running on her wheel, which rattled something awful.

She was - for all intents and purposes - his baby.

“Yeah, well…you tell ‘er I’ll be home soon.”

“I shall. I doubt she’ll understand me, but she may get the gist, let’s hope.”

There was a second or two of silence, then Edward nodded to Jonathan’s hand. “…Does that still hurt?”

“Only if I move it wrong.”

“Or slam it against a wall of glass.”

Jonathan sniffed. “I don’t take crap from ‘em, Edward. Neither should you.”

“How sweet. Have you been taking your medication?”

Jonathan was hesitant to answer in front of the guards; his impression of Scarecrow wouldn’t be believed if they knew he’d taken his pills. But it would settle Edward’s worries, because Edward did worry, considering how…_close_ he’d gotten to Scarecrow recently - as in, coming a fraction away from being one of his victims.

Besides, there was always the chance of Jonathan using Scarecrow’s reputation to scare the guards into believing his medication hadn’t worked. That could be fun.

With a sigh, Jonathan nodded. “Been poppin’ a pill every mornin’.”

“Good. If Scarecrow turns up at my club once you’re released, I will be having words. After I bash his face in with my cane, of course.”

“You’d be bashin’ _my_ face in.”

“Well, that would teach you for not taking your pills, then, wouldn’t it?” Edward replied curtly. “I’m the good-looking one in this relationship, so you wouldn’t have to worry about reconstructive surgery.”

Jonathan sniffed. “Careful - yer gonna hurt my feelings.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t care what people think, and you would just add the scars to your collection.”

“True.”

Edward smirked in amusement, then he was looking to Jonathan’s cast again.

Jonathan knew he was feeling useless; had he been incarcerated with Jonathan, he would’ve gotten revenge on the inmate who had harmed him already. He didn’t like not being able to do anything, but Jonathan didn’t even remember the inmate’s name, so there would be no telling Edward how to locate his family or anything like that.

He didn’t have any doubts, though, that Edward would find a way to locate them on his own.

“…Gotten your revenge, I hope,” Edward said slowly. When Jonathan shook his head, he added, “Ah. You’ll take _crap_ from inmates, but not guards. I see.”

“I ain’t takin’ crap from no one, Edward.”

“Then what’s the excuse?”

Jonathan snapped, “The _excuse is_ I’m _tired_ an’ I’ve been _dealin’_ with the _Pigeon_ all this damn time. Gimme a break, will ya, I only got enough energy ta deal with _one_ asshole at a time.”

There was silence as Edward continued staring sternly at Jonathan’s cast.

For a moment, Jonathan wondered if he’d offended him, then Edward was raising his half-lidded gaze to Jonathan’s face and asking, “…Did you just call Oswald ‘the Pigeon’?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Edward stared at Jonathan, who stared right back at Edward.

Neither spoke a word for a good five seconds or so, then Edward snorted loudly and slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with oncoming laughter.

Jonathan could see his smile peeking out from behind his hand and slowly grinned in return, especially so as Edward lost control of himself and burst into laughter, leaning back in his chair as he had done so before, the hand that had covered his mouth now pressed to his chest.

Jonathan’s laughter bubbled up from inside of him, a simple grin turning into chuckles, then into rumbustious laughter that had him leaning over the desk to rest his forehead against his wrist, elbow on the desk to support himself.

Both men laughed together in the silence of the visiting station, the guards giving them strange looks, but they didn’t care.

The joke wasn’t even that funny, they were sure more people than Jonathan had swapped the Penguin’s name out for another bird’s, but there was something about the situation and the fact that _Jonathan Crane_ had said it that made it all the more funny - not to mention that it was such a joy to laugh together again.

They weren’t used to being on different sides of the glass; they worked on heists together, mainly. News of the partnership between the Scarecrow and the Riddler had spread all over Gotham by now, without the details on how far the partnership went. Everybody was used to seeing them together. Seeing them apart seemed like a good opportunity for attack, but even that was a mistake; when one fucked with the Scarecrow, they were added to the Riddler’s hit list, and vice versa.

When their laughter died down slightly, Jonathan tapped the glass and said, “Hey. Hey.”

“Hm?” Edward slipped a finger under his glasses to wipe a tear away from his eye.

Jonathan held up his cast, nodding to the extended middle finger. “I’m actually kinda likin’ this thing - it’s givin’ people the finger _for_ me. Flippin’ the Penguin a whole new kinda bird.”

That, combined with how deadpanned Jonathan had sounded, only brought another bout of laughter out of Edward, who was desperately trying to wipe the tears from his eyes while he shook with laughter.

Again, not very funny, but they’d already started, so they might as well keep going.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen, for the guard that had kept an eye on Jonathan’s side of things stepped over and said, “Start wrapping things up, you two. Visiting time is ending.”

That brought their laughter down until both were silent, save for the sniffling Edward was giving thanks to the tears he’d begun to shed during his laughing fit. He removed his glasses to clean his eyes, then sniffed and replaced them as he sat up again.

The atmosphere wasn’t happy and loving anymore. Edward’s smile had turned sad and Jonathan’s brow had furrowed.

Neither liked to think they were co-dependent, and they certainly weren’t, but…well, there was no shame in missing your partner when they were incarcerated, right? Villains weren’t beyond loneliness.

Edward swallowed the lump in his throat, then straightened himself and spoke slowly. He suddenly sounded very tired. “…Riddle me this, Jonathan Crane…”

Surprisingly, he interrupted his own gimmick, if only to note: “This one has two answers, so think carefully now.”

Jonathan didn’t need to; he knew exactly what was coming up. Edward had riddles for every occasion, even when he wanted to be an affectionate and supportive boyfriend. Jonathan had heard this one many times before, but he would be a fool to interrupt one of Edward’s riddles, as well as incredibly insensitive.

Edward cleared his throat and started again. “Riddle me this, Jonathan Crane: I make you weak at the worst of all times. I keep you safe, I keep you fine. I make your hands sweat and your heart race. What am I? Two answers to this one.”

Jonathan pursed his lips and pretended to ponder, acting like the riddle was harder than it really was to humour Edward, then he leaned his arm on the desk and replied, “Love an’ fear.”

Edward nodded. “The love is for you. The fear is for them.” He leaned forward, giving Jonathan a hard stare over his glasses. “Go and _fuck them up,_ dear.”

Jonathan smirked wickedly and nodded.

Edward hesitated, his gaze turning sad again, then he raised a hand and pressed it to the glass between them. “…And try to come home to me soon. It’s too quiet without you.”

Jonathan nodded again.

(Of course, what that meant was that Edward didn’t have anybody to talk _to_ because Christ knew Jonathan was as quiet at home as he was in the asylum, Bernie didn’t quite cut it for Edward, and there was nothing Edward Nygma loved more than the sound of his own voice, not even Jonathan Crane. But it was the thought that counted.)

Jonathan moved the phone to sit upon his shoulder, tilting his head to keep it pressed there, then raised his uninjured hand and pressed it to the glass, over Edward’s. His palm was slimmer and his fingers were longer and littered with scars; it was a welcomed difference. He could practically feel the leather of Edward’s glove.

Edward smiled at him, adoring, loving, and Jonathan returned it, if only due to their situation.

“Alright, Crane, c’mon,” the guard on Jonathan’s side spoke up, “time’s up.”

Jonathan sighed through his nose, but nodded all the same.

“I’ll visit again,” Edward spoke quickly, in case the guard forced Jonathan from the chair, “when I can. Soon. I promise.”

Jonathan nodded again.

Both men found it hard to pull their hands from the glass, but they eventually found the strength to, if only because the guard motioned for Jonathan to put back the phone and offer up his wrists to be locked into the handcuffs.

Jonathan did so without a word, frowning down at the metal bracelets, and looked to Edward to watch him go.

Edward used the hand he’d pressed to the glass to blow a kiss; Jonathan mimed catching it and pressing it to his cheek.

Edward smiled in return, then stood up from his chair, collecting his cane and paper as he did so. He folded the page and returned it to his inner coat pocket.

Jonathan was allowed to watch Edward until he left (yes, even Arkham staff could be kind sometimes) and so he saw how Edward straightened out his coat, began the walk to the door at the other end of the room, only to stop and storm on over to the guard that had tried to take his paper away.

The guard stiffened as Edward approached him; whether it was out of fear or an attempt at appearing tougher was hard to tell. Jonathan liked to think it was fear, not only because that was his thing, but because Edward Nygma could be pretty fucking scary sometimes.

(To others, not to Jonathan. He didn’t feel fear and - even if he did - Edward was far too beautiful when scary to really spook him too much.)

The curve of the question mark cane was pointed at the guard’s nose.

“If I come back here,” Edward said; his voice was muffled noise to Jonathan, since he was speaking right in the guard’s face, but he could get the gist of what he was saying, “and he’s injured beyond just a broken finger, I will be making sure that you have no family to return to.”

The guard’s face paled. “I-I didn’t -”

“You’re getting ideas. I can see the look in your eye. So, I will reword my statement: if I come back here and I find out you’ve hurt Jon, if you’ve done the _smallest thing_ to inconvenience him out of _spite,_ I will make sure that you get home in time to find the result of your family’s _absolutely legitimate, absolutely-not-a-collective-murder, secret_ little suicide pact.”

The guard’s eyes widened; he’d never looked or felt so ill.

“Do I make myself clear, Mr. Sullivan?”

The guard’s mouth slowly opened, shock pasting his face, then he whispered, “How…How did you know my -”

“I’m the _Riddler,”_ Edward interrupted, taking his cane away from Sullivan’s nose and placing the balled tip on the floor, clutching the curve tightly in one hand, “I know _everything._ Now, I asked you a question: do I make myself _clear?”_

Sullivan hesitated, then nodded once, trembling.

“Good.” Edward pointed toward Jonathan with the ball of his cane. “Jonathan Crane is to be left alone. As is Oswald Cobblepot, since I’m aware you were eavesdropping. Understood?”

Sullivan nodded, his gaze at his feet.

“Good. Riddle me this, Sylvester Sullivan.”

Sullivan flinched; the Riddler knew his full name, where his family lived, probably even what he’d had for dinner last night.

Fuck.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“What can you break, but not touch?” Edward put the ball of his cane to the floor again, leaning upon it with one hand haughtily.

Sullivan swallowed thickly, feeling himself sweat. His thoughts were too scattered to try and think of an answer, too concerned with the fact that the _Riddler_ had just threatened his family (his daughter would be four next month, _surely Nygma wouldn’t - oh,_ but he _would),_ so how could he possibly think of an answer to a _stupid fucking riddle?_

Gulping again, Sullivan shook his head. “I…I don’t know…”

“Of course you don’t,” Edward replied. “The answer was a promise, which is what I just made to you.”

With that, Edward turned on his heel and walked on over to the door at the other end of the room.

“Sir,” the guard in charge of Jonathan called, “he needs to open that for y -”

Edward held up a hand. “No need. Brought my own.”

The guard’s jaw dropped as Edward brought a security key card from his pea coat’s pocket, slid it into place in the scanner on the wall, then the door unlocked with a loud buzz and Edward happily exited Arkham Asylum’s visiting bay, humming a little ditty and merrily swinging his cane as he went.

Jonathan watched until the door shut behind him, then he shook his head.

“That son of a bitch…” He muttered.

Oh, sure, Edward could’ve come and got him out anytime with that fancy little card, but, _no._ He had to prove a point, didn’t he? He’d told Jonathan so and thus, he was going let him stay in Arkham. Judging by his wording earlier, he wasn’t going to make any effort in getting Jonathan out; Oswald’s people were going to handle it this time, in exchange for Crane acting the bodyguard.

God damn it.

Jonathan looked over at Sullivan, who was still just standing there, trembling, his knees knocking as his wide eyes stared at nothing. No doubt he was thinking of all the horrible things that would become of his wife and children, should he upset the Riddler.

Jonathan watched the way he shivered, the way he sweated, and he grinned wickedly.

“Lookit him,” he said to the guard holding his shoulder, “I think he’s wet himself.” He barked out a laugh, taking in the display of fear. “He’s so _scared. It’s glorious. Beautiful.”_

“Come on, Crane,” the guard next to him snapped underneath his breath, snatching Jonathan’s bicep and dragging him out of the room, and Jonathan didn’t fight him, just continued to grin.

Edward was so attractive when he was spreading fear; if he’d been in here with him, Jonathan would’ve dared to break his ‘no sex in Arkham’ rule. The only way Edward could’ve been more beautiful was if he was the one that was afraid.

Jonathan shook his head fondly as he was led back to his cell, the feral grin on his face still very much alive. “He’s such a sentimental bastard…”

As he passed Oswald Cobblepot’s cell, he faked a frown as he spotted Oswald peek out of hiding, smiling at him as he walked by, raising his eyebrows in the silent, sarcastic question of how things went.

Jonathan pointed a finger at him and mouthed, “Don’t.”

It only made Oswald look smugger, and he made sure Jonathan saw as such before he slinked on back into his cell, no doubt planning on asking him about it later.

Jonathan was sure he got a kick out of pushing his buttons, if only because it was revenge for all the times Jonathan had done it to him. Vandalising the lounge by leaving small piles of straw, wearing that dreaded t-shirt with the suit printed on the front to mock the rule about formal wear being a must, swearing in front of Martin after Oswald (and Edward) had told him not to.

As soon as he was out of Oswald’s sight, Jonathan let his frown become the same smug smile Oswald had given.

Cobblepot had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, asking Nygma for help - and Crane was going to love every second of the aftermath.


End file.
